


Crescendo

by TalentedLoser



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TalentedLoser/pseuds/TalentedLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels the rush. And he can't ever let go of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crescendo

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: drugs. Thanks :)

The house lights go down. Hushed whispers cast over the shadows out in the wide open as his eyes peek out. It’s only minutes before the big show, the final piece of the last puzzle that’s been stirring and whirring in his mind, hours itching into a day and his fingers craving more, craving the music. He does not stand, but sits with the shadows, the demons that have gotten backstage to congratulate him on his latest success. His stool is not a pedestal. He does not claim it to be a throne, but it is as close to royalty he can achieve without doing anything to disturb the power of the world. The curtain is pulled back, and the applause begins.

No one introduces him, but he can already hear those back creatures whispering “Holmes” while the ones in front scream his name over and over again, their mantra telling him they acknowledge him, and oh, how they will not leave him alone. So he takes his swan dive into oblivion with the shadows of the audience, and the rush under his spotlight takes hold while he grips and holds onto the music that starts to slide out of his instrument. 

He can feel each string being pulled, each crescendo and staccato pulsating through his entire body, pounding and pounding against his ribcage. The notes moan and groan. Bar after bar, he will not stop moving with the music, dancing with those eyes that are glued to him because they are there for the ride as well—they want to see the magic unfold before their eyes. And they do, oh how they do. 

He closes his eyes to see the colors twist and turn him each and every way on stage, breathing getting heavier as each note passes by. He feels the rush starting, and he never wants to let it go. He wants to hold onto it until he’s dead. And his hands are getting twitchy. They want to get to the end, want to feel more than it can handle at the moment, but he has to learn how to be patient, patient, yes, the puzzle is going to be unlocked take your time breathe don’t open your eyes they’re going to be staring justkeepplayingandfeeltherushfuelyourveinsandburnyourfingertips—

He can’t hear anything but his own music, and he’s not sure what notes are playing anymore. He just sees the music behind his eyes and he plays them. Do the people watching care? They don’t seem to mind, they’re brainless, washed up, nobodies. That’s all they are, can, and will be. And he feels the high, feels the rush reach the climax and the people are on the edge of their seats—what will happen next? And damn, he knows it feels good and it shouldn’t, but he can’t help but hang onto his climax, hang on just a while longer to feel those fingertips slide against the strings and listen to his notes mix with the haunting chills he knows are there, he knows they are. 

But he still does not open his eyes, especially when the climax is about to diminish into the darkness with the shadows. He smiles, laughs, shakes, cringes at the blood passing through his heart, his mind, his entire being—he’s on cloud nine with Beethoven and Bach, Tchaikovsky sipping on his wine against the dark corner while Mozart babbles on and on drifting deeper into insanity. He’d much rather be with Plato and Socrates, but they were gone, all gone, they were caught, and he was not going to be, not today. Not when he had to play his Sonata. 

The music is dying. The notes are finally screaming out toward the audience and hoping for a reply, but nothing is going to happen. Nothing ever will. But he can hope. He’s panting and breathing heavy, but the sweat keeps him cold, and it keeps him grounded. He’s stopping, the fingers on the instrument easing away from what they had just played, and his body is coming to a halt. The lights are getting dimmer and dimmer with each last note that seeps out of his instrument, and the rush is finally coming down—but his mind is still racing, still wanting more, but he just wants to sleep, just wants—

His notes stop. His smile stays.

He doesn’t hear the applause; he doesn’t need it. He knows it was perfect.

And he sinks into his throne for the rest of the night, dealing with the demons that sunk into the darkness with him earlier. They tell him he’s done enough, done a fine job, and he knows this to be true. He always does a good job. He’s Sherlock Holmes. This should surprise no one. 

The curtain closes. The lights are gone. 

He feels…

Euphoria.


End file.
